The Eyes of the Pumpkin
The candle soots the roof of my skull,
this cap carved out of the top of my head,
sitting on a slab staring at begging children
whose greedy bags rustle the end of October.
My memory of harvest
is a snap of the umbilical,
now a tufted handle of decay.
The candle, feigning a brain,
has flickered evening away;
thoughts set in wax
on the floor of my mouth —
the last child has rustled the leaves
all sweets are given away,
my eyes black holes.
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